On the eve of the day he planned to falsely accuse and cast aside his long-suffering wife, the husband was stunned to receive a text message from the bank: his entire fortune had vanished, leaving a balance of zero
I. The Blueprint of Contempt
There are people born with a permanent void in their soul, where the poverty of humble beginnings is not cleansed by gratitude, but instead metastasizes into a venom of arrogance. In a certain poor city, where asphalt roads were patched with oil stains and the swish of bamboo brooms sweeping leaves echoed each morning, there once lived a man who clawed his way up from the bottom of society under the guise of fake diligence.
He had nothing in his hands except the submissive devotion of his devoted wife—a woman who had never known cosmetics, never demanded a single rose on holidays, knowing only how to bow her head and toil sixteen hours a day to scrape together every spare coin to support him through grueling exam studies and bitter, struggling startup years.
But as high-rise buildings began to rise, and commercial contracts brought in astronomical sums flowing into his accounts, that wife suddenly became a glaring eyesore in his field of vision. He looked at her with a gaze as sharp as a razor, disgusted by her plain clothing, disgusted by her chapped hands from chemical detergents, and above all, disgusted by the fact that she knew too much about his impoverished past.
In his new world, where expensive bubbling champagne and tailored suits reigned supreme, there was no room for an old-fashioned woman. He needed a shinier, sharper ornament worthy of his current status. And thus, his private secretary stepped into his life.
She wasn’t merely an administrative employee. She was a perfect contradiction between the sharpness of a pragmatist and a deadly seductive appearance. Furthermore, he secretly maintained a parallel relationship with a mistress from fake high society—people ready to cast a sideways glance at him if his bank account dropped by even a single percent.
To nurture that extravagant, punishing lifestyle, he needed more money. And to clear the path for the two women draining his core, he decided to ruthlessly strike down the very wife who had stood by him through thick and thin.
II. The Intersecting Trap and Fictitious Verdicts
The plan was mapped out in a tightly sealed private office on the top floor of the high-rise, where only dim yellow light and the clicking of keyboards echoed at midnight. He didn’t dirty his hands directly; he handed the entire dirty process over to his secretary—the one who held every financial password, company seal, and digital signature.
Together, they constructed a flawless script down to every detail: the company’s bookkeeping system would be “magically altered” with fabricated expenses, fake invoices, and roundabout money transfers directed straight to an account registered under the wife’s name.
— “Everything has been arranged smoothly,” – the secretary smirked coldly, pushing the forged file toward him under the dim light. – “Tomorrow, when the audit agency steps into the company based on the anonymous tip we sent ourselves, your virtuous wife will have no way out. She will be prosecuted for embezzlement of corporate assets, kicked out onto the street empty-handed, and full control of the assets will rightfully fall into your hands.”
He laughed loudly, a triumphant, arrogant laugh of someone who thought himself the greatest strategist of the century. He looked at his secretary with admiring eyes, completely failing to realize that in her gaze at that moment, obedience was merely a thin mask concealing a far more ruthless predatory instinct.
To prepare for the “legal asset dispersal” to avoid post-divorce legal risks, he had followed his secretary’s instigation, signing a series of documents transferring asset management rights and personal bank account disposal rights to a temporary system directly controlled by her. He firmly believed this was merely a temporary legal loophole to blind tax authorities and the court in the upcoming dispute.
He fancied himself the wisest hunter. Little did he know that the iron hoop he thought he was fastening onto his wife had actually been tightened around his own neck by his secretary and mistress months ago.
III. The Night Before the Execution
That night, the city was shrouded in a thick, cold layer of fog. He sat alone in the sprawling penthouse apartment, a glass of red wine swirling in the palm of his hand, his eyes glued to the wall clock ticking away relentlessly.
In less than twelve hours, the game would be decided. He pictured the shocked face, the tear-stained cheeks of his wife as she was handcuffed and led away in front of all the company employees. He envisioned the absolute sense of freedom upon shedding that heavy debt of gratitude, lounging leisurely into a new life overflowing with silk and velvet beside his young, beautiful mistress.
Thinking of this, he burst out laughing, excitement surging to the top of his head. He reached for the smartphone resting on the glass table, intending to call his secretary to finalize the final steps of the plan the next morning.
Before his finger could touch the screen, the device suddenly emitted a harsh, steel-cold sound: Vibration… and a glowing flash.
Not a phone call. It was a push notification directly from the international banking app linked to his entire personal fortune—housing massive cash amounts, real estate investment funds, and high-liquidity shares.
He narrowed his eyes, skimming over the text displayed in a glaring bright red font in the dark night:
[BALANCE FLUCTUATION NOTICE] [CONTENT: SUCCESSFUL TRANSFER OF ENTIRE ASSET BALANCE] [RECIPIENT: INTERNATIONAL ACCOUNT OUTSIDE MANAGEMENT JURISDICTION] [CURRENT BALANCE: 0.00 USD]
IV. The Nightmare Overflowing the Small Screen
His action froze mid-air. The glass of red wine in his hand swayed, dark red liquid spilling over, dripping onto the dark carpet like fresh blood oozing from an unstitched wound.
He blinked rapidly, telling himself it must be a system error or that his eyes were playing tricks on him from drinking too much wine. Hurriedly entering his password, he accessed the banking app using his fingerprint.
The loading screen spun in a circle, then revealed an eerie, empty void.
Savings account: 0 VND. Linked business account: 0 VND. Gold and foreign currency investment funds: Completely liquidated fifteen minutes prior.
— “Impossible… What kind of devilish trick is this?!” – he muttered, his voice suddenly choking, cold sweat pouring profusely from his forehead, running down his cheeks.
He lunged like a soulless ghost off the sofa, dialing frantically on his phone to his secretary—the only person besides him who knew how to manipulate this high-level security password system.
Beep… beep… beep…
The ringing dragged on hopelessly. No answer. He dialed a second time, a third, then switched to calling his mistress. Everything sank into a terrifying silence, or was redirected straight to automated voicemail.
A fractured, bone-chilling intuition rushed straight up to his brain. He rushed into his study, snapping open the laptop on the desk, eagerly logging into the company’s internal document management system.
And what struck his eyes was no longer familiar financial figures, but an update notification regarding system administration rights executed thirty minutes prior: All executive powers, legal signatures, and share ownership rights have been legally transferred to an independent entity registered under an individual’s name.
The name displayed under the legal representative field was none other than his capable secretary—the person he had trusted with his darkest secrets, the person he thought was obediently playing the puppet in his hands.
V. When the Wolf Traps Itself in Its Own Den
The brutal truth slapped him squarely in the face like a heavy blow. The entire room spun and overturned. His legs grew weak, collapsing heavily onto the cold floor, both hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.
Turns out, the plot to frame his wife for embezzlement was merely a smoke screen erected to divert his attention. Over the past months, while he was lost in the delusion of eliminating his devoted wife to welcome his mistress and enjoy power, his secretary and mistress had conspired tightly behind his back.
They weren’t loyal to him at all. They looked at him like a fat cash cow, a stupid man blinded by lust and greed, easily led by the nose with cheap flattery. Every signature he signed on documents regarding “asset dispersal for divorce” were actually contracts granting full power of attorney over personal and corporate assets to an underground financial organization controlled by the two of them.
He wanted to kick his wife out onto the street empty-handed? Now, he was the one kicked to the fringes of life, bare, broke, and burdened with a massive legal debt from the fabricated expenses he had personally ordered to frame his wife.
— “You bitches… You tricked me!” – he roared from his throat, his voice cracking, turning into a hoarse, desperate sound inside the pitch-black room.
Out there, the streetlights at that street corner still cast yellowish light streaks onto the glass windows. The poor city remained locked in an indifferent slumber, completely unconcerned with the collapse of a man who once thumped his chest calling himself the winner. On the night before his vicious execution against his wife, he received the most fitting verdict: stripped clean of everything by his most ruthless accomplices, tossed into the swamp of utter poverty and isolation.
